


Splinters

by jadedgalaxies (Emeraldxoxo)



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Flirting, Hammocks, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mostly Canon Compliant, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 20:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20681243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeraldxoxo/pseuds/jadedgalaxies
Summary: When Richie and Eddie are the only two left in the clubhouse, Richie changes everything by kissing Eddie.





	Splinters

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all I saw IT chapter two exactly one week ago today and I'm still emotionally devastated from that ending. So I wrote this to cope with that. It's mostly based on the movie, with some sprinklings of the book (nicknames, you know).

Despite the spiders, creaky boards and faulty structure, the clubhouse has become sort of a safe-haven for the Losers club. It feels more _home_ than home does to Richie. It’s inviting, full of warmth and laughter, unlike the staunch walls and vinyl floors of his house. Here they blister with laughter until their sides split, play games until the sun goes down and they’re racing out of the clubhouse like the devil is chasing them to make it home before curfew.

It’s the one place where they can truly be themselves.

Despite how annoyed Richie had initially been when Eddie forced his way onto the hammock, it faded almost immediately once they were settled. And while Richie’s legs may have fallen asleep and while Eddie’s foot smells like Sonia Kaspbrak’s asshole, a pleasantness he isn’t accustomed to feeling settles in his belly.

He’s glad he didn’t relent to giving Eddie a turn in the hammock.

They lay like this for hours, taunting and blasting insults until Richie’s face hurts from grinning and Eddie’s face is cutely twisted up in exasperation. Richie hasn’t touched his comic in hours, nor has he attempted to move so it didn't feel like his legs have fallen off, and he thinks he could stay here all night.

And one-by-one, the Losers club thins as its members head home for the evening, spurred on by their grumbling stomachs. When only Richie, Eddie and Ben are left, Ben turns to them on his way out and says:

“Are you two staying?”

“We’re still fighting over the hammock,” they say in near perfect unison. Eddie levels a glare at him.

Richie adds, “and the first one to leave sniffs their mom’s panties.” The kick to the face was expected but it still makes him laugh. Eddie scoffs.

Ben watches them a moment longer before nodding and climbing up the ladder.

“Do you _have _to bring up my mom like every three seconds?” Eddie asks, pressing his toes into Richie’s cheek.

“Is it my fault you’re like in love with her?” Richie says airily.

Eddie makes a face. “Don’t be gross.” Richie pushes Eddie’s foot off his face as Eddie absently checks his watch. “Oh, I should go…” But he looks at Richie like he isn’t ready to go yet – not that Richie is ready to let him leave either.

“Eds–”

But Eddie is already standing, destabilising the hammock and then he’s struggling to push his feet into his shoes. Richie stumbles out of the hammock in a drunken stupor and grabs Eddie’s arm before his shoes are on properly. Against his better judgement, Richie pulls when Eddie recoils – a rotting floorboard gives way when Eddie steps on it wrong. They tumble to the floor together and when his brain stops feeling liquified he realizes he’s practically crushing Eddie.

Richie pushes up with a grunt and looks down at his friend below him. He’s all knobbly kneed and flushed, eyes flashing with a bit of hypochondriac fear at being pinned to the dirt floor. Eddie’s lips part slightly and his fingers brush Richie’s scabby knee in his search for his inhaler. Eddie takes a puff from the inhaler which seems to settle some of the elastic anxiety rounding out the features on his cute face.

Richie’s body tingles where it touches Eddie’s – so unlike the warm, syrupy way he felt when Eddie clambered on him in the hammock. The warmth in his body has turned hard, blistering and hot like an open flame. It makes him yearn and ache for something he doesn’t have words for. Feelings Richie has no name for bubble in his chest; they are violent and unrelenting waves that crash against jagged rocks beneath a cliff.

Without thinking, Richie leans down to kiss him. Eddie’s lips are chapped, torn up from years of frantic worrying that had manifested in lip-biting. He tastes like the skittles they barely scrounged up enough change for. For the longest moment, Eddie’s mouth doesn’t move. Richie’s brain still hasn’t caught up with what he’s done but when Eddie slowly begins to reciprocate, the full weight of his actions presses down on his chest.

Richie pulls back, feeling like spiders are crawling under his skin. Eddie looks as though he may just float away – half-lidded eyes and lips still puckered with a flush high on his cheeks.

_Cute._

“Eds…” Richie says, his voice cracking. They’re on the crux between prepubescence and adolescence – one day they’ll be taller, adults, with scruffy chins and far away from the Derry where a killer clown lurks in the sewers plotting to kill them. But right now, their skin is clear of most blemishes, excluding the light dusting of freckles on the bridge of Eddie’s nose and they're still skinny, hairless awkward kids.

“You know I hate that nickname,” Eddie says quietly. He cracks his eye open. “Well? Are you going to kiss me again or not?”

That completely throws Richie for a loop. Eddie’s always been so neurotic that Richie was almost _sure _Eddie’s brain would explode and leak through his ears if he ever kissed him. But it only takes Richie a moment longer to regain his composure before he’s grinning wolfishly.

“I always thought you were cute, Eds,” Richie says, “but this is unreal.”

The look on Eddie’s face is borderline comical. “So, you’re just going to tease me? I will get up – oh my god I’m sitting on the ground – _is that a spider_ – Richie I–”

Richie kisses him again, mostly to stop him before he completely goes off on a hypochondriac rant. The results are almost magical. Eddie grips the front of Richie’s shirt and it makes Richie’s heart leap against his ribs.

Richie’s never kissed anyone before, let alone a _boy_, and the inexperience shows on both of them. Their noses and Richie’s glasses keep getting in the way. When Eddie’s mouth parts, their teeth clack. It takes a little trial and error but when they tilt their heads in just the right way, everything clicks.

Any impression of kissing that Richie had before flew out of his head when he slid his tongue into Eddie’s mouth. He always thought it would be kind of gross, like the way the slugs they poked at summers ago felt. You know. Slimy. Kissing Eddie was nothing like that.

Eddie’s shuddery breath makes Richie’s chest tighten. And something else; he doesn’t want to think about that too much though. Richie presses a kiss against Eddie’s cheek, kissing and kissing and kissing. He isn’t thinking, not really anyways. If he _was _thinking, he might not have kissed Eddie, might be more acutely aware of the situation developing in his pants, might be more worried about what this actually all means.

But he’s not thinking. About this or that. All he can think about is Eddie. The way his skin feels under his mouth, how hot his hands are, how his knee continues to brush – accidentally or otherwise – against his crotch. The rotting floorboard under Richie’s knee cuts into his exposed skin when he shifts back.

He wipes Eddie’s saliva off his chin with the back of his hand.

“Can we get off the fucking floor now?” Eddie asks, sounding like he’s just run a marathon. Surprisingly, he doesn't reach for his inhaler.

Richie bursts into laughter. It’s reaches deep in his belly, elastic and loud. Richie laughs until there are tears in his eyes and his breath gets short. Eddie stares at him in bewilderment.

“Fuck, yeah – _ahaha _– okay,” Richie manages between laughs; his legs wobble as he stands. Eddie hops up. He dusts off the back of his cargo shorts. It’s by no means intentional when Richie’s gaze wanders downwards. And although it’s not completely obvious, there is a slight indication that Eddie’s body is reacting to Richie in the same way his is to Eddie.

Richie isn’t sure _who_ reaches out first, but he’s taking hold of Eddie’s hand and pulling his friend closer.

“Your knee is bleeding,” Eddie points out as Richie slides his fingers along Eddie’s jaw.

“I won’t fucking die from it, Eds,” Richie says even though his knee stings and there’s probably several splinters stuck in his skin.

Eddie scoffs. “Well _actually_, you could.” Richie kisses him before he can continue. As much as he finds Eddie’s rants cute (so he could, y’know, tease the shit out of him for it) he just wants to lose himself in this moment. Before either of them fully comes back to their senses.

Richie pulls Eddie towards the hammock, figuring it's the only ‘safe’ place to keep Eddie’s head on his shoulders. It takes a considerable amount of patience to arrange themselves comfortably in the hammock so that Eddie is partially in Richie’s lap and the hammock isn’t in danger of tipping over, but they manage it. Richie’s finger cautiously draws circles right below the hem of Eddie’s shorts. The sounds Eddie is making are encouraging.

If kissing was completely out of Richie’s element, whatever they were doing right now was beyond that. Like Icarus. But unlike Icarus, Richie doesn’t think they’ll ever fly _that _close to the sun. Maybe. Their foreheads touch, which happens almost naturally as Richie leans in closer to fiddle with Eddie’s belt. 

“Richie?” Eddie’s voice is a little strained. Richie’s fumbling hands freeze, and his gaze flickers up to meet Eddie’s. In this light Eddie’s eyes are dark like obsidian. “Let me touch you too.”

Richie’s glasses slide off his nose. It was the perfect timing to mask the clear surprise flittering across his face. Eddie laughs.

“Oh, shut up,” Richie grumbles, shoving his glasses back on his face and tries to regain his composure with a weak, “aren’t you going to disinfect your hands first?”

“After,” Eddie says airily. His other hand twitches towards his fanny pack but it doesn’t move off Richie’s knee. He tilts his head and Richie gets the hint to crowd in for a kiss.

Feeling a little braver, Richie palms Eddie through his shorts. Eddie draws in a sharp breath. Eddie reciprocates Richie’s actions and it sucks the air right out of his lungs. He has never had anyone else touch him before – only himself in the earliest hours of dawn when he is sure everyone is still asleep. And those times had been more embarrassing than arousing.

It felt nothing like that with Eddie. Maybe it was the softness of Eddie’s breath in his ear, or the slight residual smell of antiseptic and soap, or the warmth of Eddie’s body pressed up against his, but Richie is slowly beginning to succumb to the puddle of heat in his lower belly. His mouth seeks out Eddie’s again, desperation and affection all blurring together as he chases the way Eddie’s hand makes him feel. The way _Eddie_ makes him feel.

These feelings sprouting in his chest are completely foreign to him. It’s as terrifying as it is exhilarating. He almost doesn’t recognize himself in this moment, the way he’s kissing Eddie’s jaw, his neck, his lips as he’s coming apart under Eddie’s shaky hand.

He isn’t sure who comes first, which is especially embarrassing because all they were doing was some weird, inexperienced rubbing with their hands, but Eddie lets out a soft moan and Richie sees stars. His head bows against Eddie’s shoulder with a shudder. Eddie’s name falls from his lips like a quiet mantra, as if he’s never said Eddie’s name a million or more times before.

Their faint panting fills in the silence of the clubhouse. It takes Richie a long moment to come back down to earth, to remember who and where he is.

Eddie presses him back by his shoulder with the palm of his hand. “You know I hate when you call me that,” Eddie says. He sounds a little faraway, like his voice hasn’t caught up with him.

Richie laughs still feeling that unmistakable dizziness. “Quit lying to me Eds, I know you love it.”

Eddie opens his mouth to argue with him, but he firmly clamps it shut instead.

“Are you… pouting?” Richie can’t quite believe his eyes at the way Eddie’s lower lip juts out slightly. “You’re so cute Eddie – why are you so fucking cute?”

“Holy – _shut up_ Richie,” Eddie says, pushing him again as a blush creeps over his face.

Richie wants to revel in this moment – to forget the killer clown that taunts them at every corner, to forget the implications of what this moment actually means. He wants to stay here, safe and warm with Eddie practically in his lap while they laugh, tease each other and kiss until their lips are swollen. Just as Richie leans in to kiss Eddie again, still chasing after these foreign feelings, Eddie completely ruins the moment with:

“Ugh my underwear feels fucking disgusting.”

“Way to ruin the mood,” Richie complains between his snorts of laughter. Eddie is grinning, nonetheless, and runs his fingers along Richie’s jaw.

Reality takes too long to catch up with them but when it does it drops like a stone in the pit of Richie’s stomach. It hits Eddie at relatively the same moment, so he lets his hand fall away from Richie’s face. They climb out of the hammock with heavy limbs. Suddenly, Richie can’t bring himself to look Eddie in the face.

What the _fuck_ were they thinking? What the _fuck_ was he thinking? He tries to formulate some kind of an apology, but the words die on his tongue before he can say them.

“I’m, uh, I should go home,” Eddie says, “my mom will be wondering where I am…”

Richie can’t even find it in himself to make a sexual joke at Eddie’s mother’s expense. Which Eddie notices, of course, how could he not? When was the last time Richie passed up an opportunity to make a sexually explicit comment about Sonia Kaspbrak?

“Yeah…” Richie says passively. Eddie shuffles around in the low light and Richie fists his loose shirt, his knuckles white. He swallows the thick lump in his throat, keenly aware of his sticky underwear and rapid heart rate.

They both leave the clubhouse with anxiety swirling in the pits of their stomachs.

* * *

Richie can’t sleep.

He blandly stares up at his dark ceiling, not really _seeing_ anything without his glasses on, thinking about what happened with Eddie in the clubhouse. His room is muggy and borderline unbearable from the summer heat baking the house. It feels a little like he’s being cooked alive. He throws off his thin sheet to roll over and press himself against the wall. It’s only somewhat cooler than his fevered skin but it makes him instantly feel better. 

Once he got home, he made a beeline for his bedroom and buried his soiled underwear deep within the layers of his trash bin. It’s hard to think about, even now, what he and Eddie did in the clubhouse. The more he shoves it down the more he feels like throwing up. Words he thought he blocked from his memory resurface like vengeful ghosts.

_Four-eyed faggot_.

Richie squeezes his eyes shut; he claps his hands over his ears as if it could block out the angry words destroying him from the inside out. Hot tears prickle the backs of his eyelids and his throat tightens. It plays over and over again in his head like a broken record.

He can still taste Eddie on his tongue, still feel his touch on his skin, and the way Eddie made (_makes_) him feel. Richie longs to feel that way again. He doesn’t want to stay imprisoned by what he is told is wrong and is _mocked_ for.

Regret is a word that feels like acid on his tongue. It’s not like he _regrets_ what he did with Eddie (in fact, he thinks he might very well like to do _much more than what they did_) but it still doesn’t change the fact that what they did was wrong –

Richie stops that train of thought before it goes much further. He doesn’t really think that. If he did, he wouldn’t still be thinking about kissing Eddie. However, it doesn’t stop the barrage of thoughts from leaking in after years of torment and hate from Bowers and his gang.

He tries to chase those thoughts away. It’s an endless cycle of self-hate and longing that keeps Richie awake until dawn.

* * *

It’s been ten minutes since Richie first crouched down in front of the carvings on the kissing bridge, passing the switchblade between his slightly sweaty hands. Nary a few have passed since he first arrived and honestly, he isn’t even sure what he’s doing here. He came mostly on instinct foisted entirely on the restlessness that kept him awake all night.

Maybe it’s for courage, maybe it’s just for an outlet to get his feelings out. Maybe it’s just for him. Maybe. Richie damn well isn’t sure what he’s doing or why but as he finally steels himself to begin carving into the soft wood, he doesn’t think too much about the reasoning anymore.

It’s like when girls write the names of their crushes in the margins of their notebooks – not that Richie would equate himself or his feelings to that of a schoolyard crush. That’s just how he thinks of it, almost ruefully, as he finishes the straight line of the R.

The carving is at a bit of an angle, but he’s already started so there’s no going back. The dull scraping of his knife into the wood is a welcomed sound to cover up the hammering of his heart. It’s louder than hell in his ears.

Just as Richie finishes scraping out the first downward strike of the E, he hears: “What are you doing?” from behind him. Even though his heart leaps out of his chest and takes off running, he’d know that voice anywhere.

“Carving your mom’s phone number on the bridge,” Richie says as calmly as he can and covers the letter he already carved with his other hand. “You know, so she can pick up tips.”

“Ha ha very funny,” Eddie says dryly. They’re both surprisingly good actors right now, pretending like nothing out of the ordinary happened yesterday. The gravel crunches under Eddie’s feet as he gets closer. “Seriously though. Weren’t we supposed to meet at the clubhouse like an hour ago?”

“Why aren’t you there then?”

“We thought maybe IT got you,” Eddie says as he squats next to him. His tone was light enough that he could have passed it off as a joke but from the concerned look in his eyes, he wasn’t.

Richie tries to shrug it off despite feeling like there was something (likely insect) crawling down his spine. “I’ve never seen him by myself before,” he lies, “must not like sarcastic meat or something.”

That gets a smile out of Eddie. It relieves Richie in a way he wasn’t expecting. He hates seeing Eddie worry for him – it’s Richie’s job to worry about Eddie. Even after all that happened the day before, those thoughts haven’t changed. Richie is a little grateful for that.

“So, will you show me what you were carving then, dipshit?” Eddie says in that demanding, pressing way he usually does when he wants something. Richie has always liked that about Eddie. When he isn’t around Sonia, he’s fearless.

Maybe Richie should be a little fearless himself. Sweat beads on his hairline as he moves his hand away from the carving. Eddie chews on the inside of his cheek with narrowed eyes, staring at the carving like it’s personally offended him.

Richie swallows thickly. “Fucking say something, Eds.”

Eddie doesn’t take his eyes from the carving as he says, “I’m just trying to think of all the people you know whose names start with ‘I’.”

It takes Richie a moment to understand before he bursts into laughter. (That's another thing he likes about Eddie – how easy it is to laugh around him.) Betrayal flitters across Eddie’s face.

“I’m serious!”

“It’s you!” Richie spits out between howls of laughter.

“My name starts with an E!”

“I ain’t done yet,” Richie manages. His vision is a little watery when he looks at Eddie. Eddie, who tries to cover his bright red face with his hands, can’t meet Richie’s eyes. “You’re so cute, Eds.” When Eddie shoves him, Richie thinks it might have been justified.

“Finish it then,” Eddie grumbles. Richie stares at him like he just caught a falling star and handed it to him. He just… stares at Eddie while he collects himself. There’s something about the way Eddie’s mouth twitches, the way his hand clenches around his inhaler, the way his face lights up when they make eye contact, that makes Richie realize just how much thinks Eddie.

Makes him feel a little ridiculous for not understanding his own feelings sooner.

Richie turns back to the bridge, trying to hide his own blush with his shoulder. He carefully carves out the rest of the E. It’s a little nerve-wracking to do it while Eddie is watching him, but he finishes it nonetheless. The E looks better than the R.

Letting out a shuddery breath that he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, Richie turns back to face Eddie. Eddie is grinning. Like a deflating balloon, Richie wilts towards Eddie, pressing their foreheads together. Their noses touch.

Richie has never worn his heart on his sleeve. He’s always kept his emotions buried deep under layers Voices, sarcasm and wit. Vulnerability and Richie Tozier just did not go in the same sentence. It figures the only time he’d ever show any semblance of real emotions would be with Eddie.

“I think I have a fucking splinter,” Richie murmurs.

“Let me see before you get an infection!” Eddie snatches his hand, turning his palm upwards to stare at the tiny splinter in Richie’s finger. His forehead never leaves Richie’s either while he picks out the piece of wood.

Richie can’t take it anymore. Eddie’s so close, smelling of wet grass and antiseptic, that Richie can’t stop himself from kissing him. And this time Eddie reciprocates immediately. The kiss wasn’t like yesterday, when it set his lungs, veins and body on fire. This wasn’t a wildfire. It was the gentle lapping of waves on a coastline. And honestly, Richie isn’t sure which he preferred.

They crouch like this for a long moment, long enough to burn it into their memories until the telltale sound of tires crunching over gravel pull them apart. Richie pushes Eddie with a grin and together, pushing and pulling, they stumble to their feet. The car steadily rolls passed and Richie salutes it; and then Eddie is there, hurrying him along. They leave the carving with a last, lingering look before linking fingers and running under the cover of the bridge.

And if they shared a kiss or two under that bridge, no one would ever know.

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely _loved_ the direction the movie went with Richie and Eddie's relationship. (I was freaking out with my friend over the infamous R + E scene). Anyways, I can't believe IT chapter two was the best romance movie of the year. I hope you enjoyed, this ;;


End file.
